


What's in a Name?

by ArgentLives



Series: Across Every Universe (You are Home) [26]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Caitlin Snow (Mentioned) - Freeform, Cisco Ramon (mentioned) - Freeform, Coffee Shops, Excessive Consumption of Caffeine, F/M, Flirting, Identity Reveal, Minor Injuries, Secret Identity, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7433127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentLives/pseuds/ArgentLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why the late shift at Jitters is Iris's favorite. And sooner or later, her favorite do-gooder customer is bound to tell her who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: "you give me a different fake name every time you come into starbucks and I just want to know your real name bc ur cute but here I am scrawling “batman” onto your stupid cappuccino"

Every once in a while, after a particularly long day, when her legs ache, her eyelids droop, and she feels dead on her feet, reminded of the million things she still has to do for the week, Iris remembers why she used to hate taking the late shift at Jitters.

But then there’s that gust of wind she’s gotten so familiar with, blowing away spare napkins she’s yet to clean off of long-empty tables, and she’s reminded (much more importantly) of why she started requesting this shift on the regular.

“Hello, Miss West!” Her favorite late-night customer calls out cheerfully, vocal chords vibrating in a way that echoes around the little coffee shop, bouncing off the walls and surrounding her like some sort of invisible blanket—kind of eerie, yet strangely comfortable (familiar?). As usual, she can’t help the oddly pleasant shiver it sends down her spine, her fingertips tingling as she puts down the rag she’s been cleaning the counter with. 

“Mr. Flash,” she smirks, resting her elbows on the counter and leaning over, just to see that small patch of skin not covered by his cowl go red, the adorable blush that floods his cheeks as he not-so-subtly averts his gaze. She mentally pats herself on the back, sweeping her hair over one shoulder and watching with self-satisfied delight as he tries not to stare, thankful for her foresight to let her hair out of her usual work bun. She looks him up and down, and doesn’t miss the heaviness that seems to rest on his shoulders—even more so than usual. “Long day?”

“Oh, you could say that,” he says, his tone playful and mischievous, like it’s some sort of big secret, like he’s not going to tell her all about today’s super-heroing escapades while he drinks his coffee(s) and she closes up shop, like she won’t see it all over the news tomorrow anyway. He tilts his head and squints at her in concern, and she has to wonder just how tired she must look to prompt the uncharacteristic little frown that tugs at his lips. It’s…not a pleasant thought. “You too?“ 

She doesn’t bother trying to deny it—it’s clear she must look dead on her feet. She _feels_ dead on her feet, tired and exhausted all the way down to her bones, made even worse with the knowledge that she has to be up bright and early tomorrow to work on her dissertation. Besides, the Flash seems to have an uncanny ability to be able tell when she’s bullshitting him. She sighs dramatically, letting her shoulders drop. “The longest.”

“Rough customers?” he guesses, all-too familiar with the many horror stories of awful customers she’s shared with him since they started this…well. Whatever this is.

“That’s part of it,” she shrugs, and thankfully he doesn’t press, sensing she doesn’t want to get into all that right now. “It’s just been one of those days.”

The Flash nods like he understands all too well, which—he probably does. “Well, in that case,” he says, rifling through a wad of bills in his hand (and when and where had that even come from?), “along with my regular order, add a drink for yourself. Whatever you want. My treat.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” she says, without the usual sarcasm she reserves for him, because it actually is really thoughtful. And it makes something in her chest ache, in a good way. “Really, I appreciate it. But I’m actually trying to cut back on my caffeine intake,” —and by cut back, she thinks to herself, that’s three cups of coffee a day instead of her usual four— “and I shouldn’t really be drinking it this late, anyway. I’ll be closing for the night soon– you’re later than usual.”

“What — oh.” His eyes widen as his gaze darts to the clock hanging up on the wall behind the counter. “It _is_ late.” He says it like he’s genuinely just realizing it, and not for the first time, she wonders if he’s always on his own. She hopes not.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she laughs, her tone gently chastising to hide the fact that she’s actually genuinely concerned for his health. She’s pretty sure ‘superhero’ isn’t a full-time occupation, so he must do something else to pay the bills in his undoubtedly limited free time. Really, he has to have some sort of income if he’s coming here and buying ten cups of coffee every other night (something about a fast metabolism, and needing a lot of caffeine for it to have any effect—he’d explained it once, and she hadn’t really asked further).

“Here and there,” he says, giving her a one-shoulder shrug. She takes that for what it is: an unspoken ‘not much.’

She opens her mouth to tell him to take better care of himself, like she’s in any position to be doing that right now when she’s gotten less than twelve hours of sleep in the past three days, but he cuts her off before she can. They’ve had this argument before, after all. He knows where she’s going with it.

“Okay, now you’re getting off topic,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking his feet out, leaning back against a table. “Back to more important matters. If you won’t let me buy you a coffee, how about that double chocolate brownie instead?” He points to the display case still full of baked goods, and smiles at her without his usual cockiness, like he didn’t just off-hand pick out and offer to buy her literal favorite desert in the world. 

“Dude. _Yes._ I will literally never say no to free brownies. Not that you have to do that, but…you know. If you’re offering.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t offering,” he says with a laugh, and flashes her a smile, bright enough she’s sure he could coax the sun back out with it if he tried.

She breaks out into a smile of her own, beaming at him as she snags a brownie from the display case and sticks it in the microwave behind her so that it’s appropriately gooey, and wishes, certainly not for the first time, that he would come closer. Her arms are practically aching to hug him. _Double chocolate brownie._ Fuck yes.

As soon as she’s done preparing her brownie, she gets to work. She lines up ten to-go cups for his ‘usual’—not that he ever actually takes them to go, not that he doesn’t sit with her and chat while drinking scary amounts of caffeine, but at this time of night she’s already washed and put away all the mugs. "Al-right. Name?” she asks, pausing with her marker hovering over the side of the cup. This is a common game between the two of them—she knows he’ll never actually give her his real name, and he knows she knows who he is. With the mask on, at least. 

“Harrison Wells,” he tosses out without pause, smirking at her as he leans against one of the tables behind him, always careful not to get too close for too long. 

Iris rolls her eyes but can’t help the fond smile tugging at her lips as she scribbles “you’re a dick” down instead of the obviously fake identity, spinning around on her heel and making her way towards the espresso machine. 

“One of these days, you’re going to tell me your real name,” she calls out over her shoulder, not bothering to turn around as she prepares his order. She sort of half believes it. Maybe. Mostly, she just hopes.

“We’ll see,” he says, followed by a sudden whoosh of air. By the time she turns around, he’s already back to his casual pose halfway across the room, and there’s a little pile of cash on the counter.

“Keep the change.”

She shakes her head, scooping it up to put in the register, and the rest in the tip jar. “Where do you even fit money in that thing anyway?”

“Well, it’s not like I _intend_ to carry it around with me all day. Sometimes people try to give me things—you know, pay me, after I’ve helped them or saved them or whatever. I tell them not to but some of them just don’t listen. I usually donate most of the money—I feel guilty even having it. The leftovers, I use…well, here. Usually my last stop before home.”

“You donate it to charity,” she mumbles, “Of course you do.” She shakes her head and sighs, not because she doesn’t believe him, but because she really, really does. As if being a superhero and saving lives wasn’t enough already.

“Well, sit down and stay awhile, Flash. I’m not eating this brownie all by myself, and you’re not drinking all those out of my sight, either. I know you said it’s a metabolism thing, but I’m still half-afraid you’re going to go into cardiac arrest from all that caffeine. And sugar, dear God, you use even more than I do.”

“Fair enough,” the Flash says, a smile in his voice, as if he wasn’t planning on staying in the first place.

 

* * *

  

A few nights later, she’s got her back to the door, cleaning one of the coffee machines when she hears the familiar _whoosh_ to signal his arrival.

“What’ll it be this time?” she says, twirling around and sauntering towards the counter, “Beyoncé? Harry Potter? Justin—oh my God.” Her eyes widen, her teasing mood evaporating in an instant as she takes in the Flash’s bruised and battered form, shoulders slumped and breathing heavily, a bloody lip to go with the multiple tears in that suit of his, darker in places than she knows it should be. "Jesus—Flash, what happened?“

 “I’m fine,” he slurs, favoring his right side as he limps towards her, only to collapse against a table, breathing heavily. “Just…just a part of the job.”

"Yeah, okay, that’s bullshit. You are _clearly_ not fine.” She shakes off her shock to hurry over to him, her eyes raking up and down his body, searching for injuries.

“Hmm,” is his intelligent response, and if she weren’t so worried about him already being hurt she’d probably hit him for treating the fact that he looks like he just got in a fight with a moving vehicle like it’s no big deal.

“Do you always take care of this stuff yourself? When you get hurt?” she asks, hating the possibility of him doing all of this alone. She feels a pang in her chest just thinking about it.

“No—no, I have a—a team, and a doctor friend, but—I don’t want to go back, not tonight. Don’t want them to worry. I—ow, _fuck_ —I worry them enough.”

“So you just decided to worry me to death instead,” Iris huffs, but she’s not really angry—just ridiculously worried, and upset because he looks like he’s in pain, and the grimace that twists his usually-smiling lips makes her heart ache.

“It’s fine—I heal fast. Probably don’t even need medical attention—just wanted some company.”

“Well, too bad, you goddamn idiot,” Iris says, easing him away from the table and laying him gently down on the ground so as not to aggravate his injuries, hurrying behind the counter to find the first aid kit she knows is stashed down there somewhere—mostly for the occasional hot coffee spill. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not. I’m not an expert, but I’ve taken plenty of first-aid classes. I know how to do some basic patching up.”

The Flash groans in protest as Iris plops down next to him again, kit in hand and wet rag in the other, but after a moment he relaxes into her touch as she starts to wipe the blood away from his cheek. She’s not sure when exactly he passes out, just that at some point he does. It doesn’t even occur to her until later that it’s the first time she’s ever touched him, the first time he’s ever let her get that close.

It’s a nice feeling, knowing he trusts her enough to let her.

 

* * *

 

 

Jitters is always busy in the mornings, but usually the people who come here at that time are regulars, and she has their usual orders near-memorized, so things generally go pretty quickly with the help of Tracey working in the back. That’s not the case with these people, though, this trio of friends who just wandered in, two of them looking around as though searching for something and the third guy shooting them death glares (repeatedly) as they get in line. 

After the first of them orders—Cisco, is the name she writes on his cup—he’s nudging the second guy in the ribs with a playful grin, and Iris isn’t sure whether it’s supposed to be teasing or encouragement that he’s offering, but the woman behind them just rolls her eyes at the pair fondly as Second Guy finally approaches to give her his order.

The first thing she notices is that for some inexplicable reason, he looks nervous. Like, about to jump out of his skin nervous. The second is that is _really_ cute, and just her type.  

“Hi,” he waves sheepishly. It almost looks like he’s about to hold his hand out to her before hastily stuffing his hand back in his jacket pocket and wrinkling his nose, like he’s silently scolding himself. He grins, and it’s somehow self-deprecating and cocky all at once. “Uh, the Flash.”

“Iced or hot?”

“Um…” he blinks, throwing a panicked gaze over his shoulder to his friend, who just shrugs and makes a face at him like she’s trying hard not to laugh. “Hot?”

“Okay,” she says, punching in his order. “Size?”

“Medium?” he says it like it’s a question, and the guy hovering by his side exchanges an amused glance with the trying-not-to-laugh friend, only he doesn’t even try.

“And will that be for here or to go?”

“To go? Uh, to go.”

"Alright. What should I put on the cup?” she asks after she’s finished ringing it up, and when she glances back up at him she’s slightly startled to see him looking so nervous again, like he’s actually _sweating_ , and suddenly she finds herself worrying about the poor guy’s health. Which of course is the only reason she finds herself staring, not because he’s seriously adorable. Of course not.

“Uh, um—you know—” he trips over his words, somehow growing even redder as he speaks, rubbing the back of his neck. “—the, ah, um. The Flash?”

“No, silly, I already got your order,” Iris says gently, doing her best to make him feel more at ease. “I’m asking for your name.”

Unfortunately, this seems to have the opposite effect, as she watches his shoulder slump. He looks dejected for some reason Iris can’t comprehend, and for a moment she feels the absurd urge to apologize, even though she can’t think of what she could’ve possibly done or said wrong.

“Oh. That,” the guy says, scowling down at the countertop, refusing to meet her eyes. “Just—Barry. Just Barry.”

“Well okay, ‘Just Barry’,” Iris teases, hoping it’ll make him crack a smile, at least. Something strange and familiar swoops in her stomach as she watches the color flood his cheeks, like—a memory. “That’ll be $3.25. Just wait right over there, your drink will be right up.”

He carefully counts the money stuffed in his palm, counting out the proper amount before sliding over the counter and quickly drawing his hand back as Iris reaches for it, like he’s afraid if their fingers brush he’ll get burned. It’s…really odd.

“Alright,” she says, putting the money in the register (exact change, _hell yeah)_ and gives him what she hopes is a pleasant smile. “Just wait right over there, your drink will be right up.“

‘Just Barry’ nods, and then bites his lip hard, like there’s something more he wants to say but he’s determined not to let himself say it. His friend—the long-haired guy (Cisco, her memory supplies again), puts a hand on his shoulder, giving him a half-sympathetic, half-amused look as he guides him over to the pick-up area.

As she takes down their other friend’s order—Caitlin, the woman tells her—she tries to put Barry out of her mind, his pretty eyes and spattering of moles, all really weirdly familiar. And yet there’s still something nagging at the back of her mind as she watches the three friends exit Jitters, huddled close together and whispering in hurried voices. The door closes behind them, and she tries to put it out of her mind for good this time.

Again, it doesn’t work.

 

* * *

 

 

“Iris,” a voice greets her as she’s stacking cups later that night, and she turns around to face the Flash, a smile ready on her face.

“What, no Miss West? How very informal of you.”

She’s half-joking, but for some reason it seems significant. More…personal. She kind of (really) likes the sound of that, of her name on his tongue.

"You literally saw me bleeding out on this floor, _Iris_ ; I think we’re past formalities at this point.” The Flash steps closer to the counter, closer than he usually does, and Iris decides to test her luck a bit, slipping quickly around the side so that the counter isn’t between them anymore, continuing to close the distance between them as he speaks because he hasn’t told her to stop yet.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, eyes bright, watching her carefully as she comes closer. Slowly—like she’s approaching a skittish animal. “So, thank you. For patching me up the other night. And — respecting my privacy. And just—being a friend.“

Iris waves him off, because she’s enjoyed having his company just as much. "Of course. But…” she tilts her head, considering him like she’s done so many times before. “Have I earned a name yet?”

“I already told you,” he smirks, and Iris rolls her eyes, beating him to the punch.

“Yeah, yeah. Harry Potter, Frodo, George Washington, Oliver Queen…whatever the hell you’ll come up with this time. I mean your real name. I promise I won’t tell anyone—I kind of like having you all to myself.” She takes a step closer, batting her eyelashes at him. “Come on, _Flash_. Don’t you trust me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes as she finally stops walking, so close she can feel the warmth in the air around him, charged and full of crackling energy. “I’d have to say I do.”

Iris smiles so wide her cheeks hurt, heart thudding in her chest at the knowledge that she’s finally going to figure out who’s hiding behind that mask, except…something about those eyes looks familiar…and that nagging voice at the back of her head comes back, telling her she kind of already knows. Instead she reaches up, fingers brushing against the top of his mask, before she pauses to look him in the eye. “Can I take this off?”

The Flash swallows nervously, before looking at her through his lashes—his ridiculously long, pretty lashes that she’s definitely seen before—and giving her a quick nod, like he’s afraid he might suddenly change his mind. She pulls the cowl back gently but quickly before he can. The face that greets her is young, and handsome, and clearly anxious. Also, she’s definitely seen it before.

“Just Barry, huh?” She smiles at him, stepping back a little to give him room to breathe, but still watching his face carefully, cataloging every detail. “I _knew_ you looked familiar." 

He lets out a breath, shifting nervously from foot to foot like he just can’t keep still, before forcing himself to stop and meet her watchful gaze. "Barry Allen, yeah. I, um, tried to tell you earlier today. When I came in? But after…well. I didn’t think you’d believe an awkward skinny guy like me could be the Flash.”

Iris shakes her head, frowning a little at his insecurity, wishing she could convince him otherwise. “But you are. And it’s the heart that makes a superhero, not the body, and you’ve definitely got that. The heart, I mean—but the rest of you is just fine as well. Besides,” she adds with a wink, “I like tall guys.”

Something in Iris’s expression, open and honest, seems to breathe the easy confidence back into him, and right then she can see where ‘Barry Allen’ meets ‘The Flash’, with his shoulders set, posture upright, and chest puffed out a little, but his words still awkward and stilted with nerves “Do you—um. I mean, you don’t have to, but I was just wondering, if you wanted to get coffee with me, but like—not like this, I mean actually have coffee together, you know, to really talk, and, uh—”

“Are you trying to ask me out on a date, Barry Allen?” Iris lifts an eyebrow at him, feigning surprise.

“Maybe? Actually, yes. Definitely. That is, if you want.”

“As long as you’re not wearing that suit, I’ll be there.”

“I thought you liked the suit,” he pouts, and Iris can’t resist reaching out to run her fingers over the emblem, a fond smile on her lips.

“I do. Trust me. But I already know the Flash. I want to get to know ‘Just Barry’. He seems like a pretty cool guy. Cute, too.”

The Flash— _Barry’s_ —answering grin is enough to set loose a fresh wave of butterflies in Iris’s stomach, and as he brings a hand up to cover hers, still hovering over his chest, her blood suddenly feels electric in her veins. She watches the way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles even wider, and she knows he must feel it too.

“It’s a deal, Iris West.”


End file.
